“Where the devil is the voice? Just like once the excorsised demon called Legion pulled into 2000 pigs, it went right into Berlin’s gob-worker and magpie-strangler Martin Lau. And here, it enunciates as a raging, hissing glossolalia-multitude, amidship the pre-logic numinous.
Still (or again), all meaning wanted to be said and everything that is meant to say boils down to a primeval soup, without any letters and without Luise. Being sound, close to mania and wind, being primal sound, close to animal and demon. That’s because we are tonally linked to the natural, as Lau says in an interview given to its label Atemwerft: The mouth is the world’s door. But, even when Lau tries to avoid mimetic, there are similarities to Donald Duck, Adenoid Hynkel and Zang Tumb Tumb.
Lau makes himself a medium, a shaman and a solicitor for something that has to come up to speak without speech; like some kind of shaking angst and throttling fury, like some excess made out of delirious über-egomania, like some bruitistic brutalism and cerebral anarchy – where there is no difference anymore between total overexertion and total adsorption.
For this, Lau has to deconstruct and transgress mintings and reflexes of his speech centre. He’s working hard on instinctiveness, striving for the unforseeableness of the indescribable and the awful. In full consciousness of his performances’ artificiality he tears and mangles the lingual world of sounds, through the ruthless use of vocal cords, throat, pharyngeal space, maxillary sinus, (big) mouth, tongue and teeth.
He grates and slurps that lingual soundworld until there is almost nothing left for the broom. And then, he guzzles also the broom. Finally, it is all up to garotting himself and, panting like a dog, tackling the bones. But finally, after coughed caution, he convulvesivly disgorges everything he had gorged himself on. Compared to this, even Phil Minton, Jaap Blonk or Mike Patton appear like well-behaved choirboys.”
(Rigobert Dittmann, translation by Martyn Schmidt)